


Odds

by Anonymous



Category: Merlin (TV) RPF
Genre: Angst and Humor, Friendship/Love, M/M, National Television Awards, Secrets, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-27
Updated: 2013-05-27
Packaged: 2017-12-13 02:46:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/819050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Colin smiles, feeling the tension ease—feeling, for the first time since he heard his name called—like he's actually won something. He knows it's all a bit sick and more than a bit pathetic, but as long as Bradley's up for this game of theirs, he doesn't care. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Odds

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the kmm prompt: RPF, Bradley/Colin, pillow talk, post-NTA win. Author took liberties with the 'pillow' aspect (though presence of pillows is strongly implied in some scenes). Set 23-28 January, 2013.

'So...'

_'So?'_ Bradley says. _'So where are you?'_

Colin glances out the window. They're just passing Hyde Park, so it'll be another half-hour yet. At least. 'On my way,' he says. 'What are my odds of winning, do you think?'

He hears Bradley's gasp of mock-outrage, imagines the lazy blink. This is almost his favourite way of flirting with Bradley, when he's not actually there to suffer the consequences. In person, he always feels at a disadvantage. 

_'Why Colin, I don’t have an exact_ number _for you, but I'd say they are excellent… superior even.'_

Colin chuckles, slips his free hand inside his pocket, fingering the thin rectangle of plastic. Does he dare?

_'But you have to actually_ be here _to find out, mate,'_ Bradley adds, then ends the call.

Colin stares down at his mobile, wondering what the hell he's doing racing over from Dublin while he's on a job for what amounts to—let's be honest—a popularity contest-turned-spectacle, one in which he's viewed as an upstart and _Merlin_ is a dark horse, at best. But Bradley is nothing if not a competitor and, as Colin has come to learn, once you are on Bradley's team, that's it. He will see you to glory or die trying. 

Colin counts it lucky that, as they are actors, 'die trying' means whipping up the fanbase via Twitter. 

He also knows that his presence in London tonight has nothing to do with the National Television Awards. Not really. But for now that is his secret to keep.

**~ * * *~**

_'So...'_

'So?' Colin says, switching his mobile to his other hand. He can hear glasses clinking in the background, music, the bright jangle of voices making merry. The people around him are nothing of the sort, mostly business travellers, rumpled suits short on time and patience. Colin steps aside to let them pass while he shrugs into his backpack.

_'So you're killing me here. You turn up late, you disappear after and you haven't said a_ single _thing about it since you rang. For fuck's sake, Col, I Twitter-whored myself to get you votes for that award.'_

Colin startles at the word 'whored' coming out of Bradley's mouth, likes it maybe a little too much. His accent is still posh, but blurred with drink. 

'What do you want to know?' Colin mutters, declining to point out that he hasn't had _time_ to say anything about anything, as Bradley's been blathering nonstop since the plane landed and Colin rang him. Clammy fingers on a small glass screen. Clammy heart under all its layers.

_'Well, for starters…'_ Bradley makes an exasperated sound. _'I don't know. Try, what was it like, you jammy bastard?'_

'Um, taller than I expected. Smelt really good. Like cake.'

_'The award smelt of cake?'_

'No. Darcey Bussell. I didn't smell the award.'

Bradley groans. _'Wow, Colin. Wow. Really?'_

'Are you taking the mick about my speech now?'

_'Am I wha—?'_ It takes Bradley a moment, but he catches on. He chuckles. _'Yeah. "Wow." Quite the opener. And the way you kept bashing that thing into your palm, mate, the_ American Psycho _hair—Rupes and I were starting to get worried for our English rose.'_

'Shut your bake about the hair.'

_'Nah. Don't think I will. Think I'll—fuck's sake, Macken, not on the shoes!'_

Colin smiles as he scans the arrivals hall, hoping to spot his driver before anyone else spots his name on the sign. 'Lads already had one for me then?'

_'One? Try a half-dozen. And it's all your fault, Cols.'_

'That right?'

_'It is. You can't just do a runner on your own after party and expect to get off scot-free. Someone's got to pay.'_

'Sounds like that someone's your shoes. My condolences.' There is a little snort, a brief pause. It's enough for Colin to know what's coming, and he holds the phone away from his ear before Bradley's laugh judders free, rides the radio waves across rooftops and mountains and the Irish Sea and pounces on him. Sometimes he hates that laugh, but only because he's never found the armour against it. Not once in five years of searching. 

'Hang on a sec.' Colin's just spotted the man, over by the base of the big yellow ka-pow. (The sculpture has a proper name, but it'll never be anything else since the day Bradley first saw it, punchy with jet lag, high off a holiday in the sun and an unexpected stopover. 'Bam!' he'd said. 'Biff! Whack! Ka-pow! You know what it ought to have, Colin, it ought to have little bluebirds circling round it, like some giant baddy's just had his bell rung. Hell of a thing to have in an airport though. Not very welcoming. So much for Irish hospitality.')

Colin waits for a small herd of suits to pass, then walks over, catching the man's eye before subtly lifting a hand. The man smiles and slips the sign back into a folder. He glances around for baggage, but Colin's only got his backpack. He shakes his head and, hearing Bradley repeating, _'Col, Colin,_ Cols, _'_ holds up a finger apologetically. The man nods.

'Got to go, mate. But. Take it easy, yeah? And be sure to check your pockets when you get home. That's what I rang to say.'

**~ * * *~**

It's one of the most elaborate of all the reckless things Colin has done over the years, but it's worth it when Bradley rings him back not ten minutes later, spluttering. The car is sliding south along the motorway, towards the congested heart of Dublin.

'That was fast,' Colin says, keeping his voice neutral and suppressing a smile because, although the driver could likely give a fuck, it's habit by now. There's no way Bradley's at home yet. And he's not as pissed as Colin had thought, as he's never an impatient drunk; pissed, Bradley has all the time in the world. Colin should know. 

'Where are you?'

_'Loos. When did you…how—?'_

'Magic.' The joke's well past its expiry, but they keep using it anyway. And in this case it's true. Sleight of hand. One of the oldest magics there is. 

Bradley snorts. _'And this means what, exactly?'_

'Key to the after party, mate. The after-after party.' He laughs like it's a punch line to a grand joke, slaps his knee.

_'But it's at the_ Dublin _airport.'_

'Mmm. Problem?'

_'Dublin, Colin. Not London. So, yes.'_

'So _planes,_ man. Giant metal birds with wings. I hear they'll let you ride them if you give them one of the other wee bits of plastic in your wallet.'

There is a pause. Colin clenches his fist so tightly on his lap he can feel his nails dig in, knows exactly the marks they'll make. He glances over at the driver—he always rides up front if they'll let him, makes him feel less of a nob—but the man's fully engaged in overtaking a slow lorry.

_'So you expect me to—'_ Bradley begins just as Colin says, 'Look, I've got three solid days ahead, but I've Sunday free.'

_And nights,_ he thinks but doesn't say. It won't be convenient, but it never is, and there are plenty of busses to and from the airport.

Bradley clears his throat. _'What about Monday then?'_ Colin can't tell if he's taking the mick or being petty. But if he's in earnest...

'Dunno. Won't have the new call sheet until Sunday night.' Colin winces at the sound Bradley makes. 'But,' he adds quickly, accentuating the 't' in a bid at sounding playful, 'they're nearly finished with me, so unless I make a hash of it I expect it'll be a light day.'

_'Hmm…well.'_ There is another pause during which Colin hears water running, then a burst of sound, then only the soft huffs and impatient tongue-clicks Bradley makes when he's surfing. He bites his lip, holds his breath—hopes Bradley is looking at timetables. 

At last Bradley announces, imperiously, _'Monday is the feast of Thomas Aquinas.'_

It is so unexpected Colin lets a laugh escape, a real one this time. It's an outdoor laugh, over-loud inside the car, and he sees the driver startle. He scrubs his hand over his face to cover his embarrassment.

'What's that got to do with anything?'

_'I thought it would be sacred to your people, Colin. Surely you're not allowed to work on the feast of Thomas Aquinas.'_

'Um, I don't—'

_'Wiki says he was known as the "Angelic Doctor." The_ Doctor, _Colin. Even if you're a terrible Catholic you've got to have some respect for the Doctor.'_

'That's not—'

There is another burst of sound, more sustained this time. It's mostly an indistinguishable mash of music and voices, but Colin thinks he hears Rupert in there somewhere. And a woman—women, plural—in the background. Bradley swears. _'Later,'_ he says brusquely, then rings off.

**~ * * *~**

Later, Colin is agonising over the wording of an e-mail when he should be reading the new pages the courier dropped off. Later still he's reading those new pages—the e-mail yet unsent—when he receives a text from Bradley.

_**Odds?** _

Colin smiles, feeling the tension ease—feeling, for the first time since he heard his name called—like he's actually won something. He knows it's all a bit sick and more than a bit pathetic, but as long as Bradley's up for this game of theirs, he doesn't care. 

_**308/1**_ he texts back. _**But superior!**_

It's not until his lunch break the next day, when he's tackling all his post-NTA e-mails, that he sees the one from Eoin, linking him to Bradley's tweet. And it's not until he's clutching a cup of good strong tea near the catering van, still high off being Jimmy, another man who is always moving, always shifting and slipping away before the punch lands (always using words and gestures—his own supposed cleverness—as a weapon against being seen for who he really is), that Colin puts it all together. The timeline. The implications.

_**…was and still am, beaming…** _

Was and still am.

Bradley was always going to come, but he has his pride, same as the next man. And after pulling out all the stops to support Colin in this—one of the few un-fraught, public venues in which to express his natural exuberance, his fathomless loyalty—what is Colin offering him in return? 

He can't demand a day off, but he can act his skinny arse off; he can make sure he isn't the one to ruin any take. He can bring pastries for the PAs, keep his ears open for scheduling gossip and drop hints that he might be coming down with a sore throat. 

He can ring the hotel at the airport, tell them in his best RP that his client in 308 has changed his mind and would very much like to take them up on the champagne weekend package—only, no rose petals please.

**~ * * *~**

Bradley doesn't bother texting his flight info, just sends a mock-cryptic, __**The king's in his castle** Friday afternoon, along with a picture of a rubber duck swimming in an ice bucket alongside a bottle of champagne. Colin holds the message and the image close, walls them off in that place where he puts all the good things he tells himself he can't have just yet, and dives into the work.

He's released an hour early, the busses are running on schedule, and no one recognises him. He meets no one in the hotel lifts or on the third floor. Normally he'd be fretting about his luck running out by this point, but there's no such thing when Bradley is waiting for him, damp-haired, barefoot and looking thoroughly bored with whatever he's watching on the telly. He's even wearing the hotel bathrobe, fucking _owning_ it like he did with anything costume used to throw at him. 

At first glance, Bradley had looked like everything Colin had learned to run away from at school, for multiple reasons. But over the years Colin's learned to look closer, so he notices the smear of chocolate on Bradley's chin. He notices the jacket, jeans and trainers tossed every which way, but the old T-shirt draped lovingly in the centre of the pillow nearest the window. He notices the rubber duck—a pair of them, actually—arranged on the table so they can 'see' the telly and the genuine relief, the genuine pleasure on Bradley's face when he spots Colin.

'About time, Morgan,' he says. He gestures towards the table, with its half-empty platter of fruit and chocolates, the champagne, the ducks. 'Lovely, this—I feel quite the pampered mistress—but these two are crap company outside the bath. I'd half a mind to—'

'Thank you,' Colin cuts in. It bursts out of him, raw and heartfelt, no more or less sincere than the thousand other thank yous that pave his way in the world, but meaning something very different. He knows by Bradley's sudden stillness, by the way he lowers his head, trying to hide his wonky muppet smile, that he's been heard. 

Colin shucks his backpack and his beanie, toes off his trainers and collapses beside Bradley on the sofa. He leaves some space between them, in case Bradley needs to talk. 

'Hey,' Bradley says softly. 'Hey you, c'mere.'

Colin gives him the side-eye, tries not to show his surprise that Bradley remembers. 'That's my line, you filthy thief.'

'Well it worked a treat, didn't it? I was putty in your hands. Very macho putty, mind.'

Colin snorts, shakes head. The pair of them secretly sharing a hotel room in Cardiff, that had been the start of it—that and some gin-flavoured courage from the mini-bar, on top of months of Bradley's herd-of-elephants-sized hints and Colin's crumbling resolve. 

And look how far they've come. The pair of them secretly sharing a hotel room at the Dublin airport.

Colin repeats this aloud, even though he knows he shouldn't, because it's childish to moan about the rules mid-game. Especially if you're the ones who set them. (The secrecy is mostly his condition; the hotels are Bradley's. It's safer, he claims. It will keep them from slipping up, from leaving stray socks or pieces of their hearts at one another's flats.)

'I'd say this is definitely a step up from Cardiff,' Bradley says, neatly side-stepping the emotional sinkhole Colin's just opened up. 'Cardiff didn't have hand-made chocolates. Or rubber ducks.' He reaches out, wrapping an arm around Colin's shoulders and tugging. 'Now come _here._ I thought this was supposed to be an after-after party, and you're neither pissed nor naked.'

'You know I'm not about to get pissed on a work n—'

'No,' Bradley cuts in, putting his full body weight into it. 'So you'll just have to get doubly naked, won't you?'

Colin lets himself be pulled in, gives up feeling guilty for the sake of Bradley's mouth and seeing his happy eyes up crazy-close. His mouth tastes like chocolate and melon layered on top of mint toothpaste, and Colin wants to punch something because it's too good and it's been too fucking long.

'So is that me baring my arse twice or do I have to take off my skin?' he murmurs between kisses.

Bradley pulls back, nose wrinkled in disgust. Then out comes that laugh, hitting Colin smack in the face. In the chest. Bradley shoves him away and Colin stands, hauling off his layers of shirts and unbuckling his belt.

Bradley reaches up to help. When he's got Colin's pants and jeans down around his knees, he pauses, frowning. 'I think doubly naked is baring your arse and your _soul,_ Morgan.' He glances up, far too earnest for a man at eye-level with another's crotch. 'But as yours is a bit of a dubious beast—your soul, I mean—I will settle for bare arse plus One True Thing.'

Colin pretends to seriously consider, but they both know his prick's winning this one. It's already asserting itself, plumping up beside Bradley's cheek. 'Yeah alright. What's my topic?'

Bradley rolls his eyes. 'Not _now,_ ' he says, letting go of Colin's jeans and placing his hands on his thighs. He slides them up, over Colin's hips and around to his arse, grasping one cheek in each broad palm. 

Colin gets out one breathy, 'Ah' before Bradley's slurping his half-hard prick into his mouth like it's a fab lolly.

For a moment Colin just watches, dumbstruck. He'll never get used to this, never stop finding it a minor miracle. He remembers the first time, Bradley almost frightening in his eagerness, his determination to finally, _finally_ … 

Colin closes his eyes, lifts his arms slowly above his head, stretching his shoulders and lower back, offering the textured ceiling his grimace of pleasure and a guttural sigh.

Bradley squeezes his arse and hums in response. Colin opens his eyes. He settles his hands back on Bradley's head, touching his hair, his ears, the sides of his neck. No longer remembering, but relearning. 

'Yeah, get tore into that, boyo,' he says, putting a bit of gravel into his voice. 'Suck my frigging cock.'

Bradley grunts. He pulls one hand away to undo the bathrobe's belt and pulls the flaps aside. His cock is already jutting up, fat and angry red. He's got the prick-trigger of a teenager, goes limp to full mast in seconds flat and could probably get a hard-on for a sunny day. (He'd ruined takes with that cock—it was a running joke on set—and Colin had nearly ruined a few of his own gawping at it.)

'No,' Colin says, gripping a handful of hair. 'Not yet.' Because the other thing about Bradley's cock is that, though he can stay hard for a bit once he's come, he gets over-sensitised and takes ages to reload. And tonight Colin needs visceral proof that Bradley isn't just indulging him or happy to be along for the ride. Tonight Colin wants to fuck the cum out of him. Literally.

Bradley, bless him, understands. He glances up with hot, fierce eyes, and slowly withdraws his errant hand, placing it at the root of Colin's cock. He sucks and jacks him until Colin's near boneless, slumped forward with his hands on Bradley's shoulders, his breath coming out harsh and ugly.

Then Bradley stills. He disentangles everything, gently pushes Colin back and stands. 

Colin has a moment of panic—a long-ago memory of standing there with pants around ankles and a red wet dick and oh my god Col you're up for it, you're really up for it you bent frigging bastard, the laughter and they know they _know_ —but then Bradley kisses him and he remembers that now is not then. That Bradley will do many stupid things, that he will prank Colin and tease him within an inch, but will never truly humiliate him. Will never make him feel anything less than…

'Get the rest of your damn kit off already,' Bradley murmurs. He turns away, bends down to pluck a few grapes from the fruit platter. He chases them down with a swill of champagne, shucks the bathrobe, and walks over to the bed. He leaps onto it, sprawling on his stomach, but by the time Colin's done as asked, he's flipped over onto his back.

'I suggest a compromise,' he says.

Colin lifts a brow as he passes, heading for the en suite and Bradley's wash bag, which he knows will contain some posh brand of lube. Because Bradley is finicky and a bit of a snob like that. When he returns Bradley is smirking at him.

'What?'

'One step ahead of you, professor.' Bradley opens his thighs wide, boldly touches himself and holds up a glistening finger. He laughs at whatever he sees on Colin's face. It's not the happiest laugh. 

'Don't you think that by now I…' Bradley waves a hand, cutting himself off. 'Whatever. It's not a big deal. But I know what you want when it's been awhile, yeah? And I happen to enjoy it, but I'd like to be… like this. I'd like to see you. I'd like to be _seen._ Alright?'

The truth is, Colin's brain is still snagged on that glistening finger, on the thought of Bradley touching himself after his bath, getting himself all slippery and loose and—no doubt—blathering on at those stupid ducks the entire time, but as an actor he's been trained to pick up on emotional subtexts, and he senses that this one is pretty fucking massive.

'Yes,' he says, climbing onto the bed, climbing over Bradley and just revelling in every naked inch, every line of him, a living script Colin never has enough time to wrap his tongue around. 'Frigging hell and yes, Bradley James.' 

And those are the last intelligible things he says for some time.

**~ * * *~**

Colin wakes to a familiar pattern of huffs and tongue clicks. Bradley is sitting up against the headboard, mobile in hand.

'What's on?' he says, reaching for and caressing a thigh without thinking. The look of surprise he receives in return is telling. Colin is not known for his morning afters.

'FA Cup,' Bradley says, a bit too casually. 'Fixtures, team sheet gossip. Not that I'm worried Brighton will give us any real trouble, but…' He shrugs.

Quite possibly because he's not fully awake—but more likely because he's in up to his oxters—Colin presses his face to Bradley's thigh, opening his jaws wide to take a mock bite. Then he looks up, says the only thing he knows about Arsenal that is guaranteed to get a rise. 'What do you care, you great plastic gooner?'

He gets an honest-to-god grappling match for his trouble. He gets his hair pulled, his armpits tickled and his arse soundly smacked. He gets his hole licked and fingered until he's spouting blasphemy, and he gets Bradley's cum smeared triumphantly all over his chest. 

He barely has time for a shower before he has to catch a bus back into town, back to his own hotel before the van picks him up. Everything about the day feels fine, and not even faulty boom mics or lashings of rain or the ghosts of Bloody Sunday can keep the bounce out of his step. 

Then he remembers he's meant to be coming over sick and does an about-face, going quiet and sucking down numerous cups of tea during breaks. If anyone wonders at the change, they don't pry beyond an 'You alright, love?' He's not important enough to these people for them to dig deeper, and that suits him just fine. 

At the end of the day Colin feels he's done well by Jimmy, can leave him and his insecurities, his constant deadlines and _hurry_ behind with a clear conscience. He stops by Soup Dragon before heading back to Bradley.

**~ * * *~**

'I have brought you a feast of soup, my lord!'

'You can't feast on soup, Cols.' 

Bradley's eyes are glued to his mobile screen, but he doesn't have that cooped-up, long-suffering air about him. He's been out for a run, Colin, decides. And Arsenal are… Arsenal.

'Oh but you can. When it's four types you can. And bread. And fruit. I got you beef chilli, by the way.' He whispers 'beef chilli' like it's something exotic, illicit. Baby panda. Lemur on toast.

Bradley looks up at that, giving Colin the careful blank face. The professional actor man. Very much not impressed. 'Well, why didn't you say so to start?' 

Then the mask cracks and he's grinning; he's setting his mobile aside and scrambling off the sofa. He's coming for Colin and the giant bag of takeaway, sticking his hands and nose in everything, saying, 'Chilli's not soup, everyone knows that. Chilli makes the feast.'

_'You_ make the feast,' Colin says. He tells himself he's just doing that verbal riffing thing they do, where the usual response begins with 'your mum' and devolves from there—tells himself it's not like it _means_ anything—but Bradley shoots him one of those smug, eyebright smiles and squeezes his shoulder, so that's him caught out and he can’t take it back.

They watch telly half-heartedly as they eat. Bradley catches Colin up on the shenanigans he missed after the NTAs; Colin catches Bradley up on _Quirke._ Bradley does a passable (if bizarre) impression of Gabriel reading the lotto results. After their feast, Colin bathes while Bradley attends to his texts and e-mails and rings his mum, and it's all so terrifyingly domestic, even with all the starched white linens, wee soaps and hotel neutral décor, that even though he'd be more than happy just to sleep—they have all of Sunday, after all, and perhaps Monday—he reaches for Bradley's prick as soon as he slips beneath the duvet, just to remind himself what they're really here for. 

He jacks Bradley off hard and fast, tells him to keep quiet, calls him filthy names. 

Bradley ruins it all by unashamedly loving it, by letting out the silliest, most self-satisfied groan after he's come. He stretches like a jungle cat and kisses Colin's hands. 'Magic,' he says—that damn word again—and pulls Colin in for a snog before going down on him.

**~ * * *~**

Sunday, Colin wakes early. He watches Bradley sleep until he can’t stand it anymore. They disguise themselves in stuff from Bradley's bag of tricks and Colin drags him off south down the coast, to Sandycove, where even though it's January there are always more than a few hard bastards willing to brave the icy waves.

Bradley shudders watching them. He pops the last handful of crisps into his mouth, chews, swallows, flicks the crumbs out of the shaggy hobo beard he's hiding under and lets the wind carry them away.

'You know, Colin,' he says. 'Not that I don't fancy watching mad Irishmen—and Irishwomen—in their native habitat, or appreciate a bit of the old seaside, but… this is not the _most_ fun adventure we've been on.'

'No,' Colin agrees. His nose is freezing, his wig is starting to itch, and—apart from all the cloak and dagger—there is really nothing grand or novel about riding busses and trains and hanging about a brilliant bit of landscape with a cold, damp wind slapping their faces. It's a lot like work, actually. Like _Merlin._ Like trying to hang onto something that is… Done, dusted, got the award. 

And yet here Bradley stands. Was and still am. Once and future.

Colin chuckles. He's read all the legends by now, all the stories, and he's still so fucking stupid when it comes to his own.

'What?' 

Colin doesn't try to explain. He just laughs until his stomach hurts with it and he's choking on his own half-frozen snot, then says, 'C'mon. Shite plan was shite. Let's get back, get into the warm.'

They part ways on the return journey, Bradley heading back up to the airport—because Dublin is too small and it's too risky, even in disguise—and Colin into town to get some clean clothes and hang around his hotel until the week's call sheet arrives. 

There's nothing for him on Monday but a lunch meeting. It has nothing to do with him, not really, and he gets out of it with a thirty-second phone call and a wee white lie. It's not something he would have dared do before, but if he's going to start being honest about the big, brutal things, then he figures he's allowed some leeway with the little ones.

He slips the call sheet into his script binder, takes a deep breath, and rings Bradley.

**~ * * *~**

'So…'

_'So?'_

'Fancy celebrating the feast of Thomas Aquinas with me?'

_'I don't know, Colin. What does that actually entail?'_ He sounds bored, grumpy. Distant.

Colin closes the binder. He crosses to the window and looks out. He's got a view of the river, the lights of Temple Bar beyond. He knows the sea is close by, that crossing seas is nothing these days. Nothing and everything. Couples do it all the time.

'Paintball,' he says. 'Traditionally it's paintball, or a bit of go-karting, and you're in luck as there's a place right by the airport. Then we gather for a tasty meal, often in just our pants, and discuss important life decisions.'

_'Um, Colin?'_ Bradley's laugh is a bit hesitant.

'Yes, Bradley?'

_'Everything alright?'_

'Getting there,' Colin murmurs, tearing his eyes from the view. 'So, how about it?'

There is a lengthy pause. Colin paces. 

_'Before I answer, I'm calling in my One True Thing.'_

Colin stops in his tracks, winces. He'd forgot about that. 'Yeah alright. Shoot.'

_'One true thing Colin thinks about his future with Bradley.'_

Colin squashes the urge to just shout 'Yes, please, that'd be brilliant,' and chews on it for a moment. He ducks his head, watches himself nervously fingering the zip on his jacket. 

'Possible,' he says at last.

_'Odds?'_ Bradley's voice catches on the word, turns into a cough at the end, and Colin can’t help but smile. There's only one response to that.

'Superior.'

Bradley clears his throat. _'Well then.'_

'Well.'

_'Those odds are acceptable.'_

'Good. Grand.' Colin exhales.

_'You on your way?'_

Colin snatches up his backpack and is out the door before he replies, so he's not lying when he says, 'I am that.'

Tomorrow he'll take Bradley to Kart City, where they will play. They'll be wild things together, overgrown boys in a jungle of plastic and rubber. Then Colin will put an end to this game of theirs. 

No more hotels unless it's for work or on holiday. No more secrecy than is necessary to protect themselves and their families. No more pretending that it's only about great sex with a good friend, that they haven't been traipsing all over the planet with pieces of one another's hearts stashed away in pockets, rolled up in shirtsleeves and spare socks.

**~ * * *~**

'So…'

'So?' Colin says. They're both lying on their backs, breathing heavily. The duvet has been kicked down to the foot of the bed. The room reeks of curry and sex. The curry came from a nearby takeaway. The sex was made in-house. (Apparently Bradley can get a hard-on for Colin's confessions, for his demands, for his whispers about what Bradley really means to him as a fellow actor, as a fellow man.)

'I think we should take it in turns.'

Colin frowns, flops his head over to look at Bradley. 'The work? No way, man. We can't afford to pass up opportunities at this point—I can't, at least—and I'd never ask that of you.'

'Can't or won't?' Bradley says with a wry laugh. He gropes for Colin, finds his belly and prods it. Then with a grunt he rolls onto his side, slinging a thigh over Colin's hips. 'No, Cols, I know. I wasn't talking about the work. I meant the nights at our respective flats. Whenever we're both in London. Trade off like, so Eoin doesn’t feel abandoned or invaded, or take breaks so _you_ don’t feel invaded. But know that if it were up to me I'd…' 

Colin sighs and Bradley, hearing him, trails off.

'Ah,' he says. 'Overkill?' He sounds far too resigned for Colin's liking.

'Why don't we just get our own place?' Colin says slowly, enunciating like he used to back when they first met and he felt like giving Bradley a break. He brings a thumb up to Bradley's cheek, skimming it over the stubble. 'Eventually, I mean. Give Eoin fair warning, and I can keep an eye out for something decent while you're off charming LA.'

Then it's Colin who is laughing like the world shines out of his throat, like he could conquer all with the sheer force of his delight, because he's shocked Bradley into a facial expression he's never actually seen before but that he's had described to him, repeatedly, by the likes of Eoin and Angel and Katie. And it _is_ a bit cat-and-cow—not the yoga pose, but predatory _and_ lovesick, all at once—with a healthy dash of 'Where in hell's name did you come from?'

'What are the odds?' Bradley murmurs, eyes tracing Colin's face.

'No more odds,' Colin says. 'Just…this.' He pushes Bradley's leg off him, rolls onto his side and presses their foreheads together. He reaches for Bradley's hand and entwines their fingers. 'Like so.'

Bradley swallows. 'You mean like _so,'_ he says, and moves in for a kiss.

**~end~**

**Author's Note:**

> The sculpture in Dublin airport's T2 is actually called 'Turning Point' by Isabel Nolan. Colin's thoughts on Jimmy Minor are based on the character as written in the book _Elegy for April_ by Benjamin Black (as I haven't access to the TV script). Most of the locations mentioned exist; other than that, it's all a pretty pack of lies.


End file.
